


Only With You: a Between the Lines fic

by The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff



Series: Between the Lines [6]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe, Awkward Conversations, Blow Jobs, Frottage, ISTG dev recycles that cider can, In a forest, Light Dom/sub, M/M, May The Fourth Be With You, dev displays grimm-typical levels of drama & poetry, i can't think up any more ridiculous tags rn so, it is forest frottage, like it’s burgeoning it is blooming, pegging jokes that never get to be made, we’re feeling responsible in this chili’s tonight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23998228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff/pseuds/The_Honeyed_Hufflepuff
Summary: Dev & Niall ring in the new year together as always, with a little something extra.takes place after chapter 18 ofBetween the Lines
Relationships: Dev/Niall (Simon Snow)
Series: Between the Lines [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1464463
Comments: 36
Kudos: 139





	Only With You: a Between the Lines fic

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all! 
> 
> Uhhh, I'm back with another DeNiall fic. (Here's [the first](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23298208), in case you missed it.) Because they wouldn't leave me alone. Also it's Star Wars Day today, so it felt right to honor Dev in this way. I really, really wanted to have next chapter of BTL out today—today's its first birthday!!!—but alas. So here's a little something set in that 'verse instead. 
> 
> Honestly, the support I've gotten for DeNiall in this 'verse has been unreal, & I don't know how to properly thank y'all for that. So...porn. 
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!

**DEV**

"Wonder how B's faring," Niall says. 

He's stood there, the moon casting shadows from the trees on his skin as he blows smoke from his petrol station cigar. (This is what we _do_ on New Year's: go out to the woods to get trolleyed and smoke. Used to be I'd nick some of my dad's cigars and alcohol—top-shelf sort of thing—but we're old enough to buy our own shit now.) (Pretty sure Dad _knew,_ anyway.) (I _thought_ about nicking stuff tonight, for old time’s sake. Then I decided I’ve fucked with him enough for one visit.) (Really, I vacillated between thinking it’d be a shit idea and a good one. Like maybe it'd—I don’t know—instill a sense of _normalcy_ or something.)

I take a sip of cider, then swirl what’s left around inside the can. (I honestly didn’t think I’d be up for drinking tonight. Not after I spent the start of this trip legless and chundering into Daphne’s rose bushes. My appetite’s back, though, and so’s my taste for alcohol, apparently. Also it’s _tradition._ Or I guess we’re making it tradition. Three years, now.) "Getting some, hopefully," I say.

Niall taps my boot with his. "You're worried about him."

I cut my eyes to him. _Fuck,_ but he’s a vision. I know I get on Baz for his smoking all the time, but there’s something about seeing _Niall_ do it. Just once a year. I feel like that bloke from that vine. _Wow._ "Darling, it'll be a cold day in hell if I ever stop worrying about Baz bloody Pitch."

I’m not _worried_ about Baz, not exactly. Salisbury’s a good bloke; he’ll take care of him. I’m more worried _Baz_ won’t take care of Baz, but that’s always. And I’m more focused on Niall than I am Baz at the moment, anyway.

We’ve only kissed since the other night at mine. Also we’ve had some questionable—and _titillating—_ phone conversations. Some even more questionable—and _titillating—_ texts, probably, which mostly just had him worried I’d accidentally sext the group chat. (His fears weren’t unfounded, and Baz nearly blew his stack, I think.) 

Anyway, we’ve only kissed since. _Since._ Which is fine. I’ve just spent the last few nights longing for my dorm and whacking it to my beautiful memories. 

I’ve got hope for tonight. _Immeasurable_ hope. We’re alone. In the woods. A little tipsy. Also my arse looks smashing in these jeans, if I do say so myself. 

I tap his boot with mine as I finish off my cider and crumple the can. Toss it to the ground (I'll pick it up later). "Don't want to talk about Baz, anyway."

_I'd much rather talk about the possibility of getting off with you just now…_

I wonder if he can see the way I’m staring at his mouth. The way his lips keep curling around the cigar…

It’s _doing things_ to me. 

“Do you want to talk at all?” Niall says, flicking ash. 

I raise an eyebrow at him and glance down at his mouth again. He huffs through his nose, little swirls of steam rising on the air.

Then he sets the cigar against his lips, and pulls, and then pulls _me_ to him by the back of my neck. Our mouths’re just barely touching as he gives me the smoke, as I _take_ it, as it fills me, and I let it go…

There’s not much of a drug in a petrol station cigar, but it’s still absolutely fucking intoxicating. Like I finally know what’s meant by that saying, _going weak in the knees_ . Leave it to Niall fucking Sheridan to have me bloody _swooning,_ Jesus.

His hand’s moved up into my hair, cradling the back of my head, and we’re about as close as we can be without actually kissing. 

I’ve been wondering all night if he’s still nervous to do it, to kiss me _first._ (I don’t mind being first, but it was right sexy when he just went for it the other night. _God,_ the other night...)

I tilt my chin up and catch his mouth with mine. I hear—and I _feel—_ him crush what’s left of his cigar beneath his boot when I don’t let him go. The shift of his body as he drops it to the ground, the way he digs his foot into it, careful to make sure it’s actually _out…_

Fucking hell, I can’t believe I’m getting turned on by _responsibility._ (I’m not sure whether a responsibility kink’s a thing, or if it’s just a Niall fucking Sheridan kink, full stop.) (Probably the latter, if I’m honest with myself.) (Honesty really is the best policy.) 

I’m still thinking about it as I open my mouth under his, as I taste cider and smoke and _everything._ As he walks me back slowly, slowly— _one, two, three_ steps—almost like a dance, really, until my arse bumps gently against a tree. As I slide both of my hands into the back pockets of his jeans and press him forward. 

And then he kisses me faster, and I pretty much stop thinking at all.

For a second it almost feels like some sort of race, like I’m just barely keeping up. I don’t _mind_ it. It feels like he _wants_ me. Like he can’t get enough of the taste of me. Like he’ll combust if he doesn’t get as close as humanly possible to me. (I guess some of that might just be me.)

But then he slows down. I’m squeezing his arse as best I can through the fabric of his jeans, and he’s pressing in, nudging my feet apart with his boots. I pull him to me, and our hips come flush, and _fuck,_ he’s hard. 

All I can hear is the sound of our boots crushing dead leaves, and our breathing, and the way our mouths sound together. 

His hands are fucking freezing when he takes hold of my face, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is how he uses them to tilt my head where he wants it. The warmth of his tongue as it slides wet and slow against mine. The low rumble he makes as he does it, and how it gets louder when I press my hips forward.

Fuck me.

  
  


**NIALL**

He’s pliant under my hands, under my mouth.

I don’t know what it says about me that _I like it._

I can feel him hard against me in his jeans. I like _that,_ too. And the noise he makes in my mouth when I reach down and press my hand against him—

 _I_ can make him sound this way. It’s a thrill, and I’m not entirely sure what to do with it.

 _Enjoy it,_ probably. It’s easier to do that a few ciders and cigars in. And with everything that happened earlier in the week behind us.

He tastes so fucking good. He _feels_ so fucking good.

I press against his prick with my palm and let his moan tumble down my throat.

I let go of his mouth, then, kissing back along the hinge of his jaw until my lips brush his ear. “Wanna fuck you,” I say, and then I realise it sounds like I’m implying more than I have in mind.

“ _Fuck,_ I want you to,” he says, and I wonder if _he’s_ thinking about more than I have in mind.

The idea strikes a match low in my belly. It gets my heart pounding faster.

I think of him bent over for me. The mental image has me throbbing and terrified.

"I don't mean—" I start. My lips’re still next to his ear

"No.” He nudges my face with his. “No, I know."

I trace the outline of his prick with my fingers, and he shivers. It's _cold_ out, but I'm pretty sure it's me making him feel this way.

I’m thinking how it might be too cold to actually take ourselves out of our trousers, but I can practically hear Dev’s response now if I said anything: _Don’t worry, darling; I’m sure we’ll warm them right up._ Or something equally in favour of getting off in the middle of the woods in December. (January? No. No fireworks yet.)

I’m thinking all of this as if I’m not the one who fucking started it.

His hands are still kneading and pressing at my arse inside my back pockets. But then he’s lifting them out, then dipping them down below the waistband of my jeans. Over my pants, still, but—

I’m groaning against his neck as he moves one around—over the swell of my arse, then my hip, the top of my thigh—and palms me through my pants. And then I’m laughing because his other arm’s still stuck down my jeans and he’s having a time pulling it back out.

“Shut it,” he laughs back at me.

“My trousers ate your arm—”

He’s still trying to yank the spare arm out without letting go of my prick. I appreciate the effort but it’s absolutely unnecessary.

We’re laughing against each other as I pop the button for him, his hand giving my arse one good squeeze on its way out. 

“Cheers, darling,” he says. “Though if there’s one place I wouldn’t mind being trapped, it’s in your trousers.”

“You and God could cosy up,” I say, and then immediately regret saying. 

But then Dev’s leaning against me, laughing even harder than before, and I’m not so embarrassed. “Fucking. _Fuck,_ I love you,” he says. 

I let out a breath against his ear. “Yeah,” I sigh. “Yeah, love you, too.” 

“So. You were gonna fuck me against this tree, I believe—”

“Ah, yes. Getting right to the point.” 

He presses his hand against my prick, and my breath catches. “Forgive me, darling, but you don’t seem overly put-out about it.” 

I press him harder against the tree (and myself harder into his hand). And then I reach for the button on his jeans, undoing it and his flies as best I can with cold fingers.

I'm dragging my teeth beneath his ear when I shove my hand into his pants.

"Jesus _Christ_ ," he breathes, and jumps, and I start laughing again. "Fucking hell, your hand's cold."

"It'll warm up," I say, stroking him once and then again as I press my lips into his neck.

"It's like one of those icy hot condoms or something."

I huff another laugh against his skin. Press my body harder against his. Suck at his neck just lightly enough that it won't leave a bruise.

He pulls his hand out of my trousers then, tugging at the waistband of my pants before slipping his fingers beneath it. I make a noise against his neck, and then he's touching me, skin to skin. I imagine his hand isn't as cold as mine, considering it's been burrowed in my jeans up until now, but it's still cool, and it feels _good._

" _Fuck,_ I missed you," he sighs next to my ear.

I raise my lips to his ear, too. "You've seen me every day—"

" _No,_ I meant I missed this. Touching you." He takes my earlobe in his mouth and nips. It sends a hot shiver down my spine. I’m trailing my lips along his neck when he adds, "Wasn't joking when I said it was a religious experience."

I huff against his skin, and he shivers, too. "You're so full of shit—"

"I'm _not._ Literally all I want to do is fuck you now. All the time. Like, can't believe I can function at all—"

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t chuffed. (I can’t let him know the feeling’s mutual.) "Is that so,” I say. (It isn’t a question.)

"Yeah, now tell me how you want it, darling. We've a world of possibility—"

"I want to suck you off's, what I want." I find it's true, extraordinarily so. Even though the idea of him on his knees in front of me has me _feeling._

He nips me on the earlobe, then flicks his tongue over it, cheeky bastard that he is. "Kinky," he says. 

"I imagine it'd be easier than this," I tell him. I hadn't thought out details before I backed him into this tree, but jerking each other off at this angle seems like it'd be a lengthy (not to mention mildly uncomfortable) feat.

"Whatever's _easier._ But can't you let me _pretend_ you've an oral fixation?" 

I know he's joking, but I'm honestly not sure I _don't._ After the nerves passed the other night, and I was there between his legs with him in my mouth, making him writhe up above me, completely at the mercy of my lips, my tongue, the way he was clearly struggling to keep himself quiet through it all…

One of the only things I've thought about since then is doing it _again._

I pull back to look at him. His eyes are hooded, lips parted, moonlight shining in his blown pupils and off the metal through his nose.

I raise my eyebrows at him. "Shut up," I say.

I see the hint of a smirk before I kiss him.

And then I drop to my knees.

  
  


**DEV**

Niall holds my hips back against the tree while he trails his mouth just above my waistband.

My sweatshirt's perched and pooling over his nose as he goes, and I'm throbbing, and I've honestly never been so torn between thinking something _cute_ and _erotic_ in my life. 

Niall should just be illegal. That'd be no good at all for me, but it'd make everything make more _sense._

And then he’s pushing my jeans out of the way—as best he can without pulling them down—kissing along the length of me through the fabric of my pants, his breath seeping through, damp and warm, and Jesus fucking just fuck _me_ this shouldn’t feel so _good…_

I let my head loll back. And when he finds the tip of my cock and _sucks,_ I make a choked groan at the sky. I swear to fuck my eyes are rolling back.

Niall hums against me when he hears me, and I chase his mouth with my hips. (As best I can with him still holding me down, anyway.) 

And then he fucking goes back to teasing me, kissing along my belly, so close to where I want him but so bloody _far._ I think the bastard’s smiling against my skin. 

I don’t know what to _do_ with this, but it’s the most beautiful torture. Soft and rough all at once. 

I don’t see it coming when he goes for it—just yanks the waistband of my pants down with one hand, letting my dick come free. The cold barely has time to register before he practically swallows me down.

The warmth of his mouth, and the wetness of it—the fact that it’s _his_ mouth at all—makes me gasp. He _hums_ around me, which only makes me gasp again.

It’s a thrill to look down and see him there, his mouth moving over my cock, one pale hand gripping what he can’t reach while the other holds my hip back again. He must feel me watching, because he tilts his head and cuts his eyes up to me, and I just about lose it. There’s a fluttering in my heart and my belly and my cock and I just—

“ _Fuck,_ yeah,” I breathe. I tilt my hips towards his mouth, groaning as I push his fringe out of his eyes…

He’s doing something wicked with his tongue, and I’m just taking him in. As best I can with the light we’ve got from the moon and the stars, anyway. (One of these days— _one of these days_ —we’re going to be like this in the daylight.) (Or a well-lit room, at the least.) (Soon, hopefully.) I can’t see his front very well from where I’m standing, but his jeans are gaped a bit at the back, and I think his pants are a deep green. Or maybe some sort of blue—

He’s relentless in the best way, his tongue working against the underside of my cock right in that spot—

Oh.

I close my eyes and roll my hips against his mouth. “You trying to be cheeky?” I ask. (I can barely focus on the words I’m saying, honestly, but he only goes harder.) “About the piercing,” I say, and he hums and traces his tongue along my frenulum. I think it actually almost kills me. 

Bloody hell, maybe I _should_ get one.

I wonder what the healing time on that's like. Might not be worth it if we can't—

"Darling— _fuck_ —" 

"Hmm." He tightens his grip on my hip and presses me back, and I just fucking wish I could see him right now. _All_ of him. 

I’ve got a brilliant view of his shoulders, at least. 

I’m thinking about him without a sweatshirt, without _any_ sort of shirt. The way I could watch his body move while—

" _Fuck,_ d'you know what would just about kill me?" 

"Hm?"

My stomach's flipping over and over itself as I thread my fingers through his hair. "Take your cock out. Yeah? Fucking— _fuck_ —I wanna see you come while you suck me off." I want to see him come, full stop. "Or I could do it. Let me make you—"

He pulls off. "D. Shut up and let me blow you."

"But—"

"I want you to come in my mouth," he says, almost like an order. It has heat dripping down my spine. "And I want to hear how you sound while you do it." 

Oh, hell. Fuck _me…_

"You just told me to shut up—"

"Yeah, about worrying about _me._ " He sits back on his haunches then, reaching for his open flies. "I want you to come so hard you _can't_ be quiet. Will watching me jack it achieve that goal?"

Good fucking God, he's going to make me _faint._

"Right. Yep," I say. Because I've forgotten how words work.

Niall looks up at me, head tilted. "You want me to?"

"Goddamn it, _yes._ "

"Yes?"

" _Fuck,_ Niall. Have you always been this way in bed—?"

"We're not in bed. We're in the middle of the fucking woods."

"Ah, right. Surely this is the time to point out the subtle intricacies—"

"Only with you."

"What?"

"I'm not starting until you say _please_."

"Are you. Holy fuck, do you get off on this?"

" _Only with you._ "

" _Do you have a fucking power kink_ —"

"D," he says, and he palms himself through his jeans. Fucking _shit,_ he _does_ get off on this. "Do you want me to suck you off, or do you want to keep asking stupid questions?"

I almost reach down to stroke myself. Just for some fucking relief. I'm stupidly close even without him touching me.

“I—”

“Tell me.”

“ _Yeah._ "

"Yeah?"

"Fuck, _yes. Please._ "

"Please _what._ "

I can't fucking believe this. 

I can't _believe_ this, and also I swear to fuck I'm dripping precome just from the sound of his voice. Low. Hot. And the _questions_ he's fucking spinning…

"Please jerk off while you blow me," I say. Quietly. 

He _smiles_ at me. Not with teeth. It's like, this sexy fucking villain smirk or something—

And then he's tugging his zipper down the rest of the way. Pushing his jeans down around his hips a bit. Reaching into his pants—turns out they _are_ deep green—and pulling his cock out.

_Christ._

"Watch me," he says. "And don't touch yourself."

"You're joking."

“I’m definitely not,” he says. “Now watch me. And don’t fucking touch yourself.”

I just stare at him. 

  
  


**NIALL**

I keep saying shit and I don’t know where the fuck it’s coming from. 

But I know I’m going to come hard. And I want him to, too. And even though everything that’s coming out of my mouth _should_ be embarrassing...it isn’t. 

Because I’ve been waiting for this. Because I’ve _wanted_ this. Because it’s _him._

I lean back a little. Give him a good view of my prick in my hand. 

He looks a bit like he might be short-circuiting. Or about to. Which is exactly what I’m going for, so. Good.

_Good._

I breathe in deep and give myself one long, slow stroke. 

“Oh my fucking God,” Dev says. “My God, you’re serious—”

“Shut up and _watch_ ,” I tell him. Heat licks low in my belly when I say it, and _hotter_ when he does as I say. As he watches me. As his lips part and his breath rises on the air in short, shaking bursts. As I see him fighting not to touch himself. When I look at his prick, and see the wetness beading there…

I swipe my thumb over my own crown, spread my own precome. Let myself feel the ache to move faster, to make myself come.

Not yet.

I shuffle forward a bit, taking Dev in the hand I’m not using on myself. He moans at my touch, practically melts into it. “Good,” I tell him. “That’s good, babe.”

“Holy _fuck,_ you’re trying to murder me,” he says. “In the middle of the fucking woods—”

I almost tell him to shut up again. 

I lean in and flatten my tongue against his slit instead, and he makes the most debauched moan I’ve heard from him yet. 

I want to hear it again, and I do. All it takes is closing my lips around his crown, tasting the salt of him as I give him one good suck—

He’s leaning back against the tree, his breath shaking as he asks, “How’re you so fucking good at this? What the fuck.”

I've no idea. I want to give some sort of logical answer, but I don't _have_ one. The praise has me chuffed, in any case 

I won’t let on. 

**DEV**

Forget knees weakening.

The meaning of _knees buckling_ 's really starting to set in. Didn't actually think that was a _thing._ But that's sure as fuck what's happening. 

I'm trying to get myself to a place where I can actually see what he's doing to himself. So far, I can mostly just see the way his arm's moving. Not that there's any _just_ about seeing the way Niall's arm moves while he wanks himself. But it'd be all the better if I could see that glorious cock of his, too. If I could see the moment he tips over the edge. 

I want to see him pulsing. I want to see his come dripping. To see first-hand how he's getting off from what he's doing to me.

Maybe it's good that I _can't_ , not quite. They'd have me there in the mortuary or wherever, my death certificate giving it all away: massive coronary _and_ stroke associated with galactic-level pleasure and also the sight of his boyfriend's god-tier dick. Quite literally blown to death—

No. No, I'd need that engraved on my tombstone. Literally carved out for the world to see. Then Niall could at least have some sense of pride when he visited my grave.

" _Fucking_ —" He's going for that spot again. And when I groan, he moans around me. I think the vibration just about does me in.

Or maybe it's just that he's enjoying it.

 _I want to hear how you sound when you do it._ That's what he said…

I get loud for him. It's not like I can really help it at this point, anyway. 

And it's not like there's anybody else out here to hear me. (I've got no qualms about putting the owls off.)

I think about the other night as I let the sounds pour out of me. The way he pulled my hair, specifically. But when I go for it myself—to see how he feels about having _his_ hair pulled—he stops pushing on my hip and slaps my hand away.

I'm just thinking he doesn't want me doing anything he doesn't _tell me_ to do—that he's absolutely fucking kinkier than I ever could've known or realised—when he takes hold of my hand instead.

I actually whimper when he starts playing with my fingers. Because out of everything he's doing to my body right now, _that's_ the thing that starts me coming undone.

Everything that I am—everything that _we_ are—wells up inside of me, brings me to the brink—

And then my mouth falls open. I have to keep myself from closing my eyes, I _have_ to look at him—

The sound trapped in my throat finally leaves me as my hips stutter against Niall’s mouth. I’m holding tight to his hand, and he’s making noise around me, wringing every ounce of pleasure from me with his tongue as I try not to slump down this bloody tree—

“ _Holy—_ ” I manage. “ _Fuck,_ darling—”

I’m about to pull him up to me. To taste myself on his tongue. To just _kiss_ him, because I need to. I need it. I need _him—_

He pulls off in a way that’s both gentle and desperate, sitting back on his haunches again so I can see him properly. _All_ of him. 

I almost ask him to look at me. And then I feel weird about being up here, about hovering over him while he finishes himself.

So I drop to my knees, too. 

  
  


**NIALL**

Dev’s on me— _against_ me—faster than my eyes can understand. 

His come is bitter on my tongue. _His_ tongue still tastes like cider and smoke. The only thing my mouth _knows_ is Dev _._ And I’m so close. _So_ close, every pump of my fist working to strike the match, to burn me alive. 

Our lips catch as he stops kissing me to say, “Herehere _here,_ ” crowding closer against me. Bringing his prick up next to mine and—

I pull him to me by the small of his back. Then I wrap my hand around the both of us and start to stroke. Press my forehead to his. I can _feel_ our breath coming hot and heavy in the air between us. (There’s barely _any_ air between us.)

“Oh my _fuck_ —” Dev sighs. “ _Fuck,_ you feel so fucking good…"

He sets one hand overtop mine. 

I’m thinking about opening my eyes. About watching as I tip over the edge with both of us in my hand. 

“C’mon, baby,” Dev whispers. “Give it to me.” 

I _do_ open my eyes then. And when I see me jerking us both, when I see his prick still leaking come, the way his belly’s heaving beneath his sweatshirt…

My thighs go tight, and I grit my teeth, and everything inside of me finally ignites. The moan doesn’t come until I’m spilling over my fist—over _both_ our hands—and his prick. He’s right there with me, too, a chorus of sound turning to mist on the air. 

I know he’s watching. He’s watching up until the moment he lifts his chin and catches my mouth with his. I start to slow my hand as I listen to us—the noises we make into each other’s mouths as our tongues slide against each other. 

Fuck, I'm thinking about how long we've missed out.

That's when the stars burst above us. 

Or at least it _sounds_ it. It startles me enough that I jump and let go of us. And when I look up—

The trees are changing colour. Lighting up. 

I scoff. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Dev nudges the side of my face with his nose. (He still hasn't learnt that it'll _hurt._ Or maybe he does it in spite of the pain. I wouldn't put it past him.) “Happy New Year, darling," he whispers.

" _Really? Fireworks?_ " The absurdity of having an orgasm to this sort of fanfare almost makes me laugh, but I'm too busy watching the sky, and the trees. And trying to shake the evidence off my hand.

"A bit of a cynic, you are," Dev says.

"This might've been an awful idea," I say. I'm holding my sticky hand to the side, away from us.

"Inside your sweatshirt?" 

I wrinkle my nose and hold myself back from smearing what's left of my come on his face—

But then he's taking it, my hand. Flattening his tongue and licking my skin clean, staring me down as he does it. Drawing my fingers into his mouth one by one as the world lights up around us.

It should be disgusting. It _should_ be. But instead it feels like I'm made of a million fuses about to blow. 

I'm torn between being mesmerised and wanting to look away. And also a bit like I'd fancy fucking his mouth. With my fingers. Which makes no sense at all. 

He gives my fingertips a nip as he lets my hand fall away from his face. Then he quirks an eyebrow at me, smirking, and says, "For the record, I _did_ offer to suck you off. Maybe that's best practice. Y'know." He goes about tucking himself back into his pants and doing up his jeans. "To avoid this in future."

I don't know that I actually _want_ to avoid it, if this is the result.

Though now my hand's just cold from the air meeting his spit. 

I tuck myself back into my trousers, too, and Dev pulls my hips towards him by my belt loops as I do it. He's kissing me before I've done up my flies. He doesn't even give me the chance to point out that he _didn't_ offer to suck me off, specifically. Not that it's important...

We end up sinking to the ground, actually lying down on it…

I'm thinking about how things'll be once we're home. _Tomorrow_. A nice, warm bed. Privacy. How I'm going to pin him down, and we're going to fuck, probably more than once. Probably with actual light to see by. And how I think I'm finally sure of it—that this is what I want. How _good_ it feels to want it. 

Though I have to admit there's _something_ about what we've just done. Getting off in the woods like we've not a care in the world. 

He makes a soft noise against my mouth— _i_ _nside_ of my mouth—before pulling away. “That,” he says. “That was fucking brilliant.”

We’re lying on our backs, our heads facing each other. I’m pretending that we aren’t possibly lying in some amount of my come. 

Also everything I did and said while we were…

Well, it's starting to sink in. _Christ,_ what the fuck _was_ that?

“So,” Dev says. “Can we circle back to your power kink?”

My face grows hot despite the cold. _Do_ I have...some sort of—I don’t know— _thing_? “Er—”

“I fucking love it,” he says. “Hot. In case you’re worried. Don’t be."

Well that's that, then.

  
  


**DEV**

We watch the fireworks light up the sky while we let our blood settle. 

There’s something about the cold—about nights like _this._ I’m practically freezing my knob off, but it’s still comfortable out here, somehow. Some way. I’ve never understood it. Probably something about adrenaline, I suppose. 

I just feel so bloody _alive,_ and it’s _good,_ and even though I should want a fire...I don’t.

I’d say it’s all him—this bone-deep thrill of being with him, of being able to _touch_ him…

Maybe it is. Maybe it is, because I can’t remember a day in my life—a _night_ in my life—when I felt like this and he wasn’t right there with me. 

I felt it that night, when I kissed him in the pub. Just fucking went for it like some love-drunk tit who’d lost the plot. Everything to fucking lose right in front of me. 

I knew I wouldn’t, that’s just it. I wouldn’t lose him. Not all of him, anyway. Even with my mouth on his, I was trying to think up a way to pass it off as a joke. 

And then it wasn’t a joke. Never has been. But it really _wasn’t._

I’m actually grinning up at the sky right now, thanking every single one of my lucky stars. All that. 

"D,” Niall says. Eventually. (I love it when he calls me that, too. It’s so very _Niall fucking Sheridan_ of him.) (I could spend hours just listening to him talk, I think. Or just breathing. Watching it on the air.) “Have you thought about...doing this... properly?"

I’ve a feeling I know what he means. Only _he’d_ be able to word it this way, and only _I’d_ be able to figure it out. At least that’s what I tell myself. Also it’s a bit difficult trying to reconcile _this_ Niall—shy, unsure, toeing some sort of line around his words—with the one who just made me watch while he fucked himself. Who would’ve made me beg for it, I think, if I hadn’t given in so quickly. (Which I’m totally shelving for later.) 

" _Properly_?" I say. Because I’ll feel like a right berk if I’m wrong. (I need a bit more clarification here. A few more context clues.)

"That didn't come out right," he says.

I guess I’m the one who has to do the clarifying. Right. Just—

"You asking whether I want you to fuck me up the arse?" I ask. Bluntly. (I don’t look at him.)

"Er—"

"Or just whether I've thought about doing it like that at all?" Yeah. Yep. Absofuckinglutely _yes._

"More the latter," he says. I’m still not looking at him, but I can see him there: legs crossed at the ankles, hands folded over his belly, eyes wandering from star to star in the sky, probably. (Not looking at _me._ ) 

"I've...done more than think about it," I offer.

I hear his head turn towards me in the grass.

"Meaning I've done it.” Fuck, now it’s my turn to clarify. “There was this girl—Tinder match. Went out a few times—"

"Okay."

"I'm just saying—" 

"I wasn't asking whether you've fucked someone up the arse before."

I try to think of another time I’ve heard him sound like _this._ (Suddenly I feel like it’s not a great time to crack a joke about pegging.) (I wasn’t pegged.) (I would’ve been up for it.) 

"Darling, I didn't mean.” I glance over to find him working his jaw, eyes closed. I’ve seen that look before. (Probably the _first_ time I mentioned going out with this girl, who I’m just now remembering had auburn hair even though I can’t fucking remember her _name_ .) (Were _all_ my Tinder matches auburn?) “What, are you _jealous_?"

He lifts a hand half-heartedly. "Sorry—"

"I wasn't saying. _Fuck,_ I meant I had practical experience, and yeah. Deffo've thought about what it'd be like to be on the receiving end. From _you._ ” I look back at the sky, because he’s not looking at me, either. “Dick."

I mostly tack on the _dick_ for effect. And also because I’m a bit miffed at him for acting like this. And also because I’m a bit miffed at _myself_ for not choosing my words better in the first place. Also because he’s totally ruined the mood for a pegging joke.

“You. You want me to?” He actually sounds surprised, and I want to laugh because I’m practically gagging for it. 

I decide not to sound too desperate. (I’ll save that for when we’re actually _doing_ it.) "Well _technically_ the _thinking about it_ was mostly before I knew what the situation in your trousers was?” I say, which earns me a bit of a laugh, thank fuck. “Theoretically my answer's still _fuck yes._ Though I take no responsibility for whether I can actually accommodate."

"Oh my fucking God."

"Nothing a fuckton of lube and determination can't conquer." I’m picking at the grass by my side, and I find I’ve no idea how long I’ve been doing it. (It’s bloody _cold_ grass, and I think I’ve cold mud under my fingernails.) (I can’t believe this is the aesthetic I get while I admit I want him to rail me: freezing my knob off, dirt under my nails, bits of decimated grass sticking to my palm. Colours giving way to smoke giving way to stars. Partly hacked and still completely arse over tit for him. Fuck.) "What about you?” I try. (It’s only polite. Also I need to _know._ ) “Any unsung fantasies about me fucking you into blissful oblivion?"

"Honestly?” he says, and I’m not on top of my game enough to joke around with him at this point. So I just wait. “It's mostly just me bending you over till you scream. So. Not really."

"What." I was about to wipe my hand off on my trousers, but what he’s said stops me from moving at all. _Christ,_ the imagery. 

"Don't play coy; you heard me. I'm not saying it again." I’ve never in my life heard someone sound so confident with a shaking voice. It has something feral rising in my belly. It makes me want to give myself to him right here. Again. _Properly._

I think we’re both thinking about it. And if he’s not, well. I’m thinking about it enough for the both of us, honestly. 

  
  


**NIALL**

Fuck, that’s not all I want. 

I _do_ want to bend him over—the admitting it was half the battle, I think, and I’m only feeling slightly mortified—but it isn’t just that. I want _everything._

I try to tell him as much, but my words end up tripping over themselves. It’s a miracle he understands any of them. (I think what I mean to say—more than anything else—is _I love you._ ) 

“I know, darling,” he says. Softly. It’s the sort of soft I’ve never associated with him, but _could’ve,_ if I hadn’t been so blind. “Me, too.”

I’m about to get soft with _him—_ to pull him to me and kiss him until he understands—when he says,

"I wonder if anyone's having any Boxing Day sales on like. Arsehole training kits."

"I'm sorry, _what_?"

"It's a kit. Different sized plugs, y'know. The idea being—"

"I think I've got it. Also since when do you wait for a _sale_ to buy _anything_?"

"Darling, with your surprise kink situation I feel like buying sex toys might be a slippery slope. I'm trying to be frugal to accommodate future purchases."

Right. My _surprise kink situation._ A shock to us all (especially myself). I feel like I should be issuing some sort of apology. Even though he _did_ say it was hot...

"Er,” I try. “Was that alright? The bit at the end…" I’m not sure why this is what I land on, but it seems important. I was too far gone to think whether he was still sensitive from his own orgasm before I brought myself off with both of us in my hand. Not that he seemed to mind, exactly, but—

"Only _you_ would let me practically _offer_ my dick to you and then ask whether it's _alright._ " He sets his hand over mine and squeezes. His fingers are bloody _cold._ “If something’s ever _not alright,_ I’ll tell you. Yeah? And you tell me.”

“Yeah. Yeah, deal.”

I hear him shifting, and next thing I know he’s propped himself on one elbow, hovering over me. His piercing’s still glinting from the starlight. (And his eyes, too.) (I can’t remember when I started _thinking_ about Dev’s eyes. A year or two, at least. Fuck me.) “For what it’s worth,” he starts, “everything’s been brill so far. That bit you’re worried on? Could’ve sworn I’d ascended."

I laugh a cloud of mist, because I can’t hold it in; he’s such a tit. “You’re so full of shit.”

“That’s what you keep telling me, darling. Honestly though? Mind blowing. Spectacular. Can’t believe I get to date you _and_ have the best sex of my life with you. I’d say it’s unfair, you know. To the rest of the world. But fuck all those poor sods.” He moves in closer, pressing in and shocking my neck with the chill of his nose. “Now kiss me, please. My lips’re going cold.”

I do.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know how y'all liked this one! 
> 
> [BTL DeNiall playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2fMIpM544y6XTNlFC7SC1a?si=5FWR258XTzSS-5AWTbzrAg)
> 
> Also if you somehow read & found this fic without reading Between the Lines & you enjoyed it...maybe give the main fic a read? 💜👀 (Hoping to get an update out on the main fic soon, y'all.)
> 
> And as always, [I can be found over on Tumblr,](https://thehoneyedhufflepuff.tumblr.com/) usually just making a fool of myself.


End file.
